Reservation Tokyo3
by unknown user
Summary: What happens when Shinji is raised by our favorite trash-talking journalist? Not a lot, until he decides to come in and fix things for himself. An NGE crossover with TransMetropolitan.


**RESERVATION TOKYO-3**

_A little known fact to the denizens of The City, Callihan's "New Scum", is this: The Reservations (not yet removed from the existing budget) have recently expanded to remaking some places that never really existed in the first place. I mean, sure, we've got reservations for every major historical civilization, and of course the Farsight Community, but even fictional places can still contain lessons that people can learn. History is mostly fiction anyway._

_  
With all the people looking for a way out, a wiped mind and a bit part in some twentieth century television show might seem to be the way to go. Hell, even without the publicity, there should be enough recruits from just feed ads to take out all the revivals and shelters this side of the city. Why isn't this happening?_

_  
Well, as it turns out, most of these places aren't very happy to live in. That said, it's a hell of a lot better than The City, up until the end of the series, and I've got a free visitor pass.  
So, what do I do? I take up temporary residence. Maybe somebody'll stick a role on me._

_  
I'm a journalist, damnit, and I need to cover the truth. Even if the truth is just another copy of worn out fiction._

_**I HATE IT HERE. Spider Jerusalem / The Word** _

-

CHAPTER 01: My life as an unnamed backstory character

A knock came at the door of my apartment, which is about as messy as the place my editor stuck me with when I signed back onto The Word, but without a computer or even a drugged out maker. Drugs are about as easy to come by as in the city, but I don't need them. Apocalypse my ass. So what if there's floods everywhere and giant fucking biomechs piloted by psychotic children? At least they can manage not to be swapmed by live feedsite reporters and yuppies with just enough fashion sense to clone the warped shades they see on posters. Anyway, it took a while before I remembered that I can't fucking *tell* the dumb door to open, and I have to go and use the archaic mechanical lock myself.

"Well, lookie here. Got a name, kid?"

The kid looked up at me with big, tearful blue eyes. "Shinji," he sniffled. A suit with some black shades appeared behind him.

"Section 2. I was told to put him under your care until the time came to take him back."

I pushed up my own shades (the aforementioned warped ones), and nodded. "I'll take him."

The suit walked away. The kid, on the other hand, just stood outside.

"Boy. Shin-whatsit. In." He looked up, then at me, then at the floor again. He slowly took a step in. "It can walk!" He looked up, and gave what might pass for a smile in a room full of gaseous seratonin-blocker.

"Now, first things first. If you're in my house, you... Actually, we don't have the cancer blocker, so nevermind that. Second off, I'm a journalist. My old assistant has fucked off to a nunnery christ-knows-where, so you'll have to do as a substitute. You wanna learn something, kid?"

The boy looked slightly confused and not just a bit scared shitless. He nodded tentatively.

"Okay. Well, go down to the nearest food place and grab me the most disgusting junkfood they have in this god-forsaken place. Take twenty new ones out of my wallet on the table. When you come back, I want you to tell me, *_in detail_*, everything you saw, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted. Got it?"

-

_Okay, so I'm not the best father figure. I'm probably not even a good unnamed guardian for the backstory of a tragedy written by a japanese nutter. But I'm a damn good reporter, and I'd like to think that I'm a damn good teacher in that same field. I'm sure that no matter what I do, that Shinju or whatever will be fucked in the head as all hell. But if I've done my job right here, he'll also know how to see, hear, smell, taste, and feel *the truth*. Even if you feel the truth like a kick in the nuts with a stilleto made of crystalline ebola polymer and turing machine shit-ticks, it's better than not feeling it at all._

_  
I'm Spider Jerusalem, and that's **The Word.**_

--

_  
**A/N**: This is an idea that crossed my mind recently. Those who haven't read Transmetropolitan might be slightly lost, but even without reading it, it should become clear pretty soon what's going on. If you haven't read it, I strongly recommend it. It should be kind of obvious, but this chapter mostly acts as an introduction / backstory._


End file.
